


The Gathering and the One

by Wilusa



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 15:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13102770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilusa/pseuds/Wilusa
Summary: AU: The Gathering will take place. Only one Immortal will survive. But it won't happen in the way anyone had expected.





	1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: _Highlander_ and its canon characters are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions or a successor corporation; no copyright infringement is intended.

x

_**Note:**_ _This "what-if" fic was suggested by something we saw, very briefly, in the series._

_Following the lead of the series, I won't spell out when characters are "really" speaking French. Suffice it to say that when MacLeod is with native French speakers, everyone's speaking French; when he's with a native English speaker, they speak English._

x

x

x

The voice on the phone was friendly. "Monsieur MacLeod? This is Inspector Deon. I assume you would have called us if our fugitive, Monsieur Goddard, had contacted you. But I thought I should call you and make sure."

Much as MacLeod regretted having become involved in this, identified as an old friend of Goddard's, he knew the situation would be worse if he hadn't. So he replied, "Very understandable, Inspector. But he hasn't contacted me, and I have no idea where he is."

_That's the truth_ , he reflected. The Immortal he knew as Warren Cochrane hadn't "contacted" him; he'd found Cochrane. And after he'd refused to take Cochrane's head, the man had fled. He could be anywhere.

_Hopefully, far from Paris._

Deon sighed. "Yes, that's what I expected." A pause, then, "Something I just thought of. Would you be willing to come to the station, so I can ask you a few more questions about him?

"I'm sure he's deranged. Had to be, to kill another man in that bizarre way - by beheading - and then develop amnesia! He's dangerous, and we need to find him. If you and I talk, you may remember more about his habits when he _wasn't_ deranged. Favorite places, for example, that he might still go back to."

The last thing MacLeod wanted was another chat with Deon about Warren Goddard. But trying to avoid it might seem suspicious. So he said, "Of course, Inspector. When would you like me to come by?"

The Inspector said, "Uh, I'm free right now. Are you?"

MacLeod suppressed a groan. Looked out the nearest porthole of his barge, and saw that it had, at least, stopped snowing. For the first time in a week.

_Okay, I suppose I may as well get it over with_.

"Yes. I can be there in fifteen minutes."

x

x

x

As he drove to the station, he considered what he'd tell Deon. Not a problem, he decided. He'd seen Warren Cochrane a few times in recent years - wouldn't have recognized him so quickly if he hadn't. (Fortunately, the police had let MacLeod hear the amnesiac's current name before he had to come up with it.) So he'd describe those recent meetings, claim that was the entirety of their acquaintance. A casual friendship, nothing more.

He had in fact known Cochrane since the mid-18th century, when they'd fought for a free Scotland to be ruled by the fabled "Bonnie Prince Charlie." Only MacLeod had actually fought in the crucial Battle of Culloden; Cochrane had been "killed" before it began, and had to disappear.

When it became apparent that the cause was lost, MacLeod had accepted it and moved on. But Cochrane, who hadn't experienced the Battle, had clung to the delusion that Charlie was a better leader than he actually was.

MacLeod couldn't be _sure_ what had driven Cochrane to behead Andrew Donnelly, a new Immortal he'd taken on as a student. But they'd been at a site Cochrane would have associated with Charlie. So he could guess, with near certainty. Cochrane had been ranting about the "greatness" of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Donnelly knew historians didn't see it that way. And he'd argued, perhaps vehemently - not realizing Cochrane was deluded, to the point of being dangerous.

_Given the horrible thing Warren had done - killing his_ _student - his being so traumatized by it was a_ _ **good**_ _sign. I'd think less of him if he'd been able to shrug it off. If he really believed anyone who criticized his idol deserved to die._

_His wife didn't know he's Immortal. I couldn't have let him go back to her, not remembering anything, just accepting what she told him about their life. Even if he was never attacked by another Immortal...when we have injuries we know will either heal super-quickly or "kill" us, we almost always manage to get someplace where we won't be seen. We know what's at stake. An amnesiac Immortal, who didn't understand that, could expose all of us._

_I couldn't have convinced him he was Immortal, and taught him how to cope with it, while not pressing him to remember his past. The memory of his having killed Donnelly might have come back to him at any time, in any situation. Again, a threat to all of us._

_And the police knew he'd killed Donnelly! If he'd been arrested, whether or not he remembered_ _everything, it would have been too late to get away._

_Should I have taken his head, when he asked me to?_

_Why did I refuse? Was it because I so loathed what he'd done that I didn't want his Quickening? Should I have been more merciful?_

_Or was I right to be cautious? Not so long ago, I took a risk with Coltec's Quickening, and lived to regret it._

His friend Coltec had been the victim of a Dark Quickening. He'd beheaded him as an act of mercy, hoping that intention would prevent _his_ suffering the effects of a Dark Quickening. Unfortunately, it hadn't.

_I only became myself again - really, only survived - because_ _ **Methos**_ _was old enough and wise enough to be able to help me..._

_If an Immortal truly wants to die, there are ways to commit suicide - like throwing oneself in front of a train. Warren can do that, if he chooses. But I think he'll realize - as I have now - that his being so affected by what he'd done proves there's still good in him. Hopefully, he'll never kill for a reason like that again._

x

x

x

Deon greeted him with a handshake, led him into his office, and encouraged him to shed his winter coat and boots. Anticipating that, he'd left his sword aboard the barge. They talked for about fifteen minutes. MacLeod did most of the talking, earnestly delivering his prepared explanation of that "casual friendship" with Goddard.

He _wasn't_ prepared for what came next.

"I have news for you, Monsieur MacLeod," Deon said smoothly. "We actually have captured the fugitive! Several days ago."

MacLeod knew the blood must be draining from his face. Trying to keep his voice steady, he demanded, "Then why did you ask me to come here? Under false pretenses..."

_My God. What has Cochrane told them?_

Deon smiled. But MacLeod saw it as a _sadistic_ smile. The smile of a torturer about to shatter the next bone.

"As might have been expected, he denies having killed anyone. And his account of your acquaintance matches up with yours. He mentions the same times, same places. Describes you as a casual friend...and a good man."

_So he didn't betray me._ "Then why-?"

"I used him as an excuse to bring you here, Monsieur MacLeod. You're under arrest."

MacLeod leapt to his feet - just as a half-dozen men rushed into the room and grabbed him.

"Under arrest for _what?"_

"For being in France illegally."

_"Wh-what?"_ He'd killed Immortals in France - even, recently, a mortal. Always in the belief that the killings were justified, save for the one - tragic - case in which he'd been possessed by the Dark Quickening. Killings had gone unnoticed, but someone was challenging his _residence?_ Going to these lengths to do it?

_"_ That's...ridiculous! I've lived here, on and off, for years. I'm an American, with a valid U.S. passport!"

Deon was shaking his head. "The passport itself is legitimate, but you made false statements when you applied for it. Produced false records that indicated you'd been born in the U.S., orphaned at an early age..."

"That's the truth!" It wasn't, of course; but the forger had been so skilled that MacLeod couldn't imagine anyone's doubting his work.

"No." Deon's eyes bored into him. "The _real_ truth is that you were born in Scotland. In or near a place called Glenfinnan.

_"In 1592."_


	2. Chapter 2

MacLeod was so stunned that he couldn't make a sound before his captors hauled him out of Deon's office.

But then, as they dragged him down the hall, he began protesting. Loudly. "Let me go! Can't you see this is outrageous? I must have some enemy who wants me out of Paris. But it's crap. How could anyone believe for a second that I was _born in 1592?"_

The only response he heard was "Shut up!"

He hadn't been sure where they were taking him. Maybe to another office, where he'd be asked to...post bond, or something?

His worst fear was realized when he saw they were headed for a cell block. He knew the holding cells in the station were used mostly to let drunk drivers sleep it off. But he wasn't a drunk driver. And after the shock he'd just received - possibly the worst of his life - he felt something akin to panic. "No! I haven't committed any crime!"

As they shoved him into an unoccupied cell, he clutched one of them - so for a few seconds, _he_ couldn't get out - and demanded, "I want to see a lawyer!"

Unfortunately, he didn't know a lawyer in Paris. _But a public defender will do. Anyone!_

"You're not getting a lawyer. We know what you are. Shut up!"

That sent a chill through his veins. _"We know what you are"?_

Desperate now: "Shouldn't I be entitled to a phone call?"

He had no idea who he might call. Certainly not Methos, his closest friend in Paris. Could he wangle an international call to Joe Dawson, back in the States? To let him know what was happening?

Under other circumstances, Joe probably would have accompanied him to Paris. The Watchers had to put up with their being friends. But he'd come to Europe, this time, while he was controlled by the Dark Quickening. Now fully recovered, he hadn't decided how long he'd stay.

As it turned out, he'd stayed _too_ long.

"You're not getting a phone call."

"This is unbelievable!" By now he was almost screaming. "I want to call the U.S. Embassy!"

That was when the plain-clothes cops, or guards, or whoever they were, began beating him.

x

x

x

When he came to, he found himself locked in a cell - that seemed more austere, and more permanent, than the one he'd been in before. He'd been stripped of his clothes, dressed in a prison uniform. And someone had shaved his head!

_I wouldn't have been unconscious long enough to be moved, and all this done to me, just from a beating. So they must have injected me with drugs._

_I have no idea how long it's been!_

He found that terrifying. And nothing before had ever terrified Duncan MacLeod.

How much time had passed? Had his friends realized he was missing? Had they already given him up for dead? Were any of _them_ dead?

The cell contained nothing but a cot, and the bare minimum of bathroom facilities.

He didn't hear sounds that might have come from other nearby cells.

_Am I in "solitary"?_

_It feels like being in a tomb..._

He wondered whether there'd been fast-healing cuts and bruises. Or worse.

_My God. What if they were able to take photos? Prove the healing?_

He'd feared, briefly, that Cochrane might have revealed the truth about Immortals. Either inadvertently, or to spite him.

Now he was sure _he'd_ revealed it.

x

x

x

A succession of surly guards brought him unpalatable food and drink. Otherwise...nothing. No hint of what was happening in the outside world, or what was going to happen to him.

The randomly served meals were all alike - no "breakfast," "lunch," or "dinner." And the dim light in his cell was always the same. He gave up trying to guess how much time was passing.

He sometimes tried asking questions - though the typical response was a blank stare. "If the problem is with my U.S. passport, am I going to be extradited, sent back there? Or to the U.K., if you people really believe I was born in Scotland?"

_In a crowded airport, I may be able to escape..._

He finally got an answer. "You aren't going anywhere."

_I probably deserve whatever's in store for me._

He'd become more and more certain that Deon had been sending him a nasty message in announcing _the year of his birth._ Something he couldn't have learned from Cochrane.

_I didn't know the century Warren had been born in, let alone the year, until Methos let me look it up in the Watchers' Chronicle. So Warren wouldn't have known that much about me, either. If he ever had known, he wouldn't have remembered it after hundreds of years._

So Cochrane hadn't betrayed him; it was the reverse.

_Warren wasn't at risk of being sentenced to death for Donnelly's murder. France has abolished the death penalty - even if it was the last country in Europe to_ _do it._ _He would have been imprisoned for about a decade; then some Immortals would have broken him out, before the authorities could realize he didn't age._

Since learning about the Watchers, he'd suspected they sometimes "bent" their rules, and made sure trustworthy Immortals knew about situations like that.

_I may have betrayed not only him, but all Immortals, by letting the world know we exist!_

_I must have been found out because I insisted on using the same name, in all times and places - something almost no one else risked doing. And as if that wasn't bad enough, I spent way too much time in favorite regions. The Pacific Northwest, France. Especially Paris..._

He'd begun making frequent trips to Paris to visit Darius. Later, he and Tessa Noel had met and fallen in love there. Even with both Darius and Tessa gone, he'd loved the city for the memories it held...and yes, for itself.

That didn't explain Deon's having known the year of his birth.

_He could only have learned that from the Chronicle. When I was being careless and attracting attention to myself, Joe's becoming my friend must have led investigators to the Watchers. Their Paris headquarters was probably raided before Deon called me!_

x

x

x

At last, something happened.

Several men came to his cell with a knife, and made some experimental cuts on his arms, to see how quickly they'd heal.

Now they certainly did take photos.

And at this point, he didn't resist. Didn't say a word, didn't really care. He'd already been sure they knew what he was.

_What if they decide to get a bigger knife and test what happens if they cut one of my arms off? Would my telling them amputation is permanent make them less or_ _ **more**_ _likely to do it?_

They left...and didn't come back with a bigger knife.

Later, he found himself wondering _Were they really checking to find out whether there was any fight left in me?_

He cursed himself for having let them see that there wasn't.

x

x

x

Something else happened.

A group of at least ten men - he didn't have time to count - burst into the cell. This time he did fight, as soon as he realized they intended to _blindfold_ him.

But they succeeded. He found himself not only blindfolded but handcuffed and shackled, with a gag stuffed into his mouth.

_Guess this rules out escaping, even if they do take me to an airport!_

The "airport" fantasy didn't last long.

"Stop your fussing," the man who seemed to be in charge told him. "We're taking you outdoors to get some fresh air.

"You should relax and enjoy it...because it's the _last_ fresh air you'll ever know."

As they led him out of the cell, he had the wild thought that France might have reinstated the death penalty. And just for him, they were bringing back...the _guillotine_.


	3. Chapter 3

The distance they had to walk to an elevator told MacLeod they were in a large building. And from the time it took the elevator to descend, he guessed they'd been on the third floor. _For whatever difference it makes. I'm sure I'll never be here again. At least, not alive._

He was surprised at not being put into any kind of vehicle. Instead, they were walking on what felt like a well-maintained city street. But there were no sounds of traffic, nothing that would suggest the presence of other people.

There was no evidence of snow or ice. So winter must be over. But it was still extremely cold, with a bitter wind, and he wasn't dressed for it. He tried his best not to shiver, at least not visibly. _Feels like either March or November. But I haven't a clue to which one!_

After what he guessed was no more than five minutes, they shoved him through the door of another building. _Still as silent as a tomb..._ Another elevator, this one _ascending_ for what he guessed was three floors. Another longish walk.

Finally, they took him into some sort of room. Forcibly sat him down in what was actually a comfortable chair.

_Am I going to be killed, here and now? Is someone just going to lop my head off, or will they have the pretend-decency to give me anesthesia first? Maybe what would be a lethal injection for a mortal?_

He'd tried to prepare himself for death. But he realized now that he didn't know what to expect. He'd always imagined being reunited with Tessa, and close friends like Darius and Hugh Fitzcairn. But what would happen after that? Would they just stand around and wait to greet other arriving friends? Where would they go after they'd welcomed _all_ their friends?

What he wanted at the moment - wanted desperately - was to have the blindfold taken off. Wanted one last look at this world. If he'd been free of the gag, he might have begged.

He felt the handcuffs and shackles being removed. Then - at the same time - _both_ the blindfold and the gag.

And all he could think of to say was _"Huh?"_

There was no sign of preparations for a bloody execution. The room he was in looked like a luxury hotel suite!

x

x

x

The man who'd described his "last fresh air" now said, in a not unfriendly voice, "Get up. Look around."

When he tried to get up, he found himself staggering. The "spokesman" - as he'd decided to think of him - steadied him, and helped him with his first few steps.

The place really did seem to be a large, luxurious suite. A living room and connected dining area; a bedroom with a king-sized bed; a closet full of clothes suitable for a man his size; a bathroom with tub and shower. He saw a TV and radio.

But he also saw bars on the windows - making it as escape-proof as a penitentiary, assuming the occupant was going to be locked in. Surveillance cameras on the ceilings, everywhere but in the bathroom. _No privacy in a bedroom?_ And he _didn't_ see a phone, or a computer. TV and radio...but no way to initiate any sort of contact with the outside world.

Shakily, he sat down again. "Well? What am I supposed to make of this?"

"It _can_ be your new home," the spokesman told him. "If you agree to cooperate with us. You'll have to get used to the idea that whether or not you cooperate - as I assure you many Immortals are doing! - you'll never be free again, never allowed to have any sort of weapon again. For at least the foreseeable future - meaning, maybe, the lifetimes of all mortals alive today - you'll be confined to this walled compound.

"But if you cooperate, you'll find life here much better than life in the dungeon! You'll be treated as respectfully as a hotel guest. Menus will be slipped under your door, and you'll be able to order excellent meals, complete with alcohol. In addition to having TV and radio, you'll be given a newspaper every day. A Paris paper, because we are still on the outskirts of Paris, and we know you can read French. You'll also be given more choice in your clothing.

"At first, you'll be confined to your suite. But as time goes on, you may be given more freedom within this building. May be allowed to socialize with other Immortals, dine in a restaurant, even have sexual relationships.

"When I said we were giving you your last fresh air, I was expressing a _hope_. Because if you are taken outdoors again, you'll be going back to the dungeon."

The most important word MacLeod had heard in all that was "cooperate."

"In exactly what way do you want me to 'cooperate'?" _Whatever it is, I won't do it. But I want to hear him out._

"It's simple. I'm going to read you a list of all the Immortals we think are alive. I won't tell you whether we have all of them in custody. I want you to tell me if you know any of them are dead. And above all, to tell me if you know any we aren't aware of, and any aliases they use."

"Read me the list," MacLeod said quietly.

He made himself sit there stoically, keeping his face expressionless, as the spokesman read it. But inwardly, he was horrified. The list actually did include every Immortal he knew to be alive, and none that he knew were dead. He lost count of the unfamiliar names - presumably either new Immortals, or older ones he'd never met.

He thought for a moment that he might speak up and say, in a dismissive way, that the oldest-Immortal "Methos" didn't exist - he was a _myth_ , as the name suggested! But then he realized that if he wasn't reacting to any other name, reacting to that one might arouse suspicion. The spokesman might guess the truth, that Methos was a real Immortal he cared about.

He could have "cooperated," without harm to anyone, by telling the truth: that he didn't know of any other Immortals, or of any who'd been named being dead.

But his pride wouldn't let him do it. So he said, "I've never heard of any of those people."

"I'll...have to report this." The spokesman didn't sound as surprised as MacLeod had expected.

"So? Report it!"

He got to his feet - without help this time. Doubtless because he felt good about himself.

At least for a few minutes, before he'd have to remind himself that _his carelessness_ had caused all this.

He expected to be handcuffed and shackled again, for the walk back to the "dungeon." But the men turned away.

"You aren't taking me back?"

"No, not now."

And they were gone.

x

x

x

He thought someone else might come for him at any moment. So his first priority - before even showering - was finding news on TV. Had the world been told about Immortals? About this place where he, and probably others, were being held?

He soon learned the answer to both questions was _Yes_. Talk about Immortals dominated the news. Almost everyone viewed them as abominations, monsters who shouldn't be allowed to live. French citizens were outraged at the thought of many of them being incarcerated in their country. For some reason MacLeod didn't understand, much of the anger seemed to be directed at... _the United Nations Security Council?_

He turned the TV off as soon as he'd learned one fact.

The month was November.

x

x

x

Three days passed, still with no one coming to move him. The service in the suite was as excellent as the spokesman had described. Waiters were accompanied by visibly armed guards, but even they attempted to be friendly. And he'd found he could turn the lights off (though he still chose to sleep in pajamas, and dress and undress in the bathroom).

But he was in no mood to appreciate any of it. Wouldn't have been, even if he'd thought it was permanent.

Then he heard a sharp knock on the door, at an hour when he wasn't expecting any kind of room service. "Monsieur MacLeod?"

"Yes?" _If they're taking me to the dungeon, why didn't they just barge in?_

"You have a visitor. A person who's been approved - if, of course, you want to see him.

"Are you willing to see a man named Joseph Dawson?"


	4. Chapter 4

When MacLeod and Joe were alone in the suite, they shared an awkward embrace. Neither of them able to express how relieved he was at seeing the other.

MacLeod helped Joe struggle out of his snow-covered coat; he'd been so uninterested in looking out barred windows that he hadn't realized it was snowing. He noted that Joe looked more haggard than he'd ever seen him. But then he remembered that when he looked in a mirror these days, he'd been shocked at his own appearance. His hair had barely started to grow back - probably because he'd been malnourished for months.

As they were settling into chairs, Joe began explaining, "First thing, Mac - you've probably been expecting to be hauled back to the dungeon. You won't be! It was never intended that you would - that was just an 'act' the interrogaters were putting on.

"The Watchers convinced the French authorities, months ago, that most Immortals are good, decent people. And we gave them the names of the really bad guys. So what's happening now is that whether or not good Immortals 'cooperate,' they're kept here. And whether or not bad Immortals 'cooperate,' they wind up in the dungeon!"

If MacLeod hadn't been obsessed with his own guilt, he would have questioned why the _Watchers_ were seemingly "cooperating."

As it was, he burst out, "Damn it, Joe - I should be in the dungeon! I'm the cause of all this. I can't imagine its having happened any other way."

Joe's jaw dropped. "What are you talking about?"

"Those 'authorities' must have found out about the Watchers through me. And they must have realized what I am because I kept using the same name everywhere...staying in favorite cities longer than I should...when I look back on it now, I can see it was crazy! I had the biggest ego in the world - assumed I could get away with things I'd never advise anyone else to do.

"Recently, I'd supposedly been living on some combination of inherited funds and profits from my dojo. Didn't need to work, when I was living on my barge. So why, this last time, had I arrived in France as a _deck hand on a freighter?_ That was caused by the Dark Quickening - beyond my control. But if I'd already aroused suspicion, that strange behavior would have clinched it.

"And through me...or partly through the Watchers, _because of_ me... _all_ Immortals were exposed." He was fighting back tears.

"No, Mac!" Joe's face was ashen. "It was the other way around. It was the Watchers who unintentionally exposed the Immortals - and we're trying our best to limit the damage. _You_ weren't to blame for anything at all!"

"What?" MacLeod thought he must not have heard correctly.

"I'll tell you what happened. But first, I want you to know that when I heard you'd been arrested, I caught the next flight to Paris. And when I stepped off it, _I_ was arrested!

"Immortals were being held - supposedly - for using fake identities, rather than getting into what each and every one of you had done. Watchers were being held for having known about this illegal behavior, and not reported it to the police. But they released us fairly quickly, when they realized we could...help each other."

Looking straight into MacLeod's eyes, he continued, "A few years ago, one of our researchers, Don Salzer, created a database that contained information about all known Immortals, and all Watchers - with photos. Recent photos of the Immortals, and when available, older ones as well.

"Previously, all Watchers had on their computers was information about Immortals thought to be on their continent. And no photos - they _had_ photos, and _took_ photos, but they weren't on their computers."

MacLeod thought _Why is he telling me something I already knew?_

_Telling me...while taking care not to mention the other person who'd worked on that database. Methos._

He had his answer. _The walls have ears._

_He could have referred to Methos as "Adam Pierson." But if it isn't necessary, it's best not to call attention to him by letting outsiders know he's any kind of "expert."_

He didn't know whether Joe was sure they were being overheard, or merely suspected it because of the surveillance cameras. But he got the message. He should be careful what he said.

_I can ask about friends like Richie and Amanda at some point, because everyone knows they exist. But I don't dare ask about Methos._

"Don is dead now," Joe continued. "After his death, we decided it wasn't safe to have all that data on one computer, and we deleted it. We learned about a backup disc, and it was destroyed."

MacLeod remembered Methos having said, when they "learned about" that disc, that he hadn't realized Salzer _knew how_ to create a backup.

"But..." Joe took a deep breath, and proceeded to tell him what he _didn't_ already know. "There was a second backup disc. It had been left on a shelf in the Shakespeare and Company Bookstore. I've been told it was sticking out from between two books, as if it had been left there for a purpose.

"A college student saw it, and thought it might have been left specifically for someone else. Maybe it contained porn? He snatched it, meaning to look at whatever was on it and then, probably, sneak it back in. But after he looked at it, he went straight to the police."

"My God," MacLeod whispered. Because Salzer's widow had intended to take the other backup disc to a newspaper, no one had ever thought about other things that might have been done with it.

"The police realized it was important," Joe went on. "Instead of jumping the gun and doing something locally, they went to the French Government. And _they_ went to the United Nations! All before any Watchers - let alone Immortals - knew what was going on."

MacLeod ventured what he thought was a safe question. "How did - whoever was investigating - learn about Immortals who'd been killed after that disc was made?" Killed by him, in some cases.

"They spied on Watchers, checked our assignments. If a Watcher had been assigned an Immortal other than the one he'd been Watching when the disc was made, and no other Watcher was following that Immortal, it was assumed he or she was dead.

"The day you were lured to Deon's office, and arrested? That was a coordinated strike. All known Immortals, everywhere in the world, were seized that day. And because the plan had been in the works for months, faciities were ready to house them."

MacLeod was shaking his head, in near-disbelief. If he'd heard this from any other source, he _wouldn't_ have believed it.

"Thank you," he said fervently, "for letting me know it wasn't my fault. And I don't think you Watchers should blame yourselves either. It was just a freak combination of things no one could have foreseen."

"Thank _you_ for saying _that._ "

After they'd brooded in silence for a minute or two, MacLeod did ask about Richie and Amanda. He was especially concerned for Richie, because he'd never been able to apologize for the way he'd treated him when he was controlled by the Dark Quickening. "If he's here, can you tell him how much I regret it?"

Joe shook his head. "I'm sorry. I know they're both here. But at least for now, Watchers are only being allowed to visit 'our' Immortals. And only in the few cases where the Immortals knew about us and we'd become friends. I jumped at my first chance to see you - I'll be able to come once a week.

"The visits will be for exactly three hours, during which I'll be as securely locked in as you are. After three hours, guards will come and 'release' me. And I can't be carrying a cell phone, or any kind of weapon. They mean to search me, every time. The reason I still had snow on my coat today - after walking here from the parking lot - is that for this first time, an administrator had driven me out here, and he'd frisked me before we left the city."

"Ye gods!" MacLeod hadn't imagined anything like this. "I'm sorry you'll have to go through all that - grateful that you're willing to do it. And I'm glad just to know Richie and Amanda are here, not in the dungeon. I probably couldn't have learned it from anyone but you." He realized he had to ask about someone else. "Is Warren Cochrane here?"

"Yes. He survived a stay in the dungeon, and I hear he's adapting well. He'd accepted his marriage being over before he was captured, so he isn't fretting about that. He chats with the room-service waiters about Bonnie Prince Charlie. They humor him, and let him think he'll eventually be given what he keeps asking for. Pens and paper. Lots of pens and paper, so he can write a biography of Charlie!"

MacLeod found himself smiling, for the first time in months. "I hope he does get to write it. He never would have, if he was still fleeing the French police.

"Say, I haven't been much of a host. _My_ 'hosts' have provided me with some first-class French _wine_ , that's just begging to be shared!"

After the wine had been satisfactorily shared, he decided another line of questioning would be safe. "I've tried to understand the news about us on TV. But I feel like someone who's arrived for a play during the third act.

"Why are people here so angry with the U.N. Security Council? You said the U.N. was told about Immortals, so I assume they were responsible for the worldwide arrests. But why would the French object to that?

"And why are the French protesting the _number_ of Immortals being confined here? Weren't we all arrested here?"

"Uh, no." Joe was frowning. "I'm not sure of the purpose of this. But the Security Council wants to - as they say - _honor_ France for having discovered the presence of Immortals in our midst. And their idea of 'honoring' France is bringing all the world's captive Immortals here, housing them in this new facility. More are arriving every day.

"We're being told that all the Immortals' financial assets will eventually be located and seized, and they'll go a long way toward the upkeep of this place. But for now, it's dependent on taxpayers' money.

"Given the way the average French citizen feels about it, the Council may be asking for trouble.

"And that may be what they really _want_..."


	5. Chapter 5

The following week, Joe brought depressing news. "While I was on my way to your suite, I saw some new ones being furnished. I'd thought they were through adding suites, so I asked what was going on.

"I didn't expect an answer, but I got one. A dozen or so Immortals, not known to the Watchers, have been captured. Others must have given them up. My God - what's the world coming to?" He practically collapsed into a chair.

MacLeod thought for a minute. He knew, from Joe's being so appalled, that he was referring to older Immortals' betraying their _students_.

Then he asked, quietly, "Would those known Immortals have been treated the way I was? First kept for months in the dungeon, then shown a suite, and told they could only stay there if they 'cooperated'?"

"Y-yes."

"I know I wouldn't have given anyone up, Joe. I flat-out refused to 'cooperate,' on general principles. And because, at the time, I thought I had enough on my conscience already.

"But...that dungeon experience was so horrible that I can't blame anyone who _wasn't_ able to hold out."

x

x

x

When he was alone, he thought about something he couldn't discuss with Joe, for fear of being overheard. He understood now that it was one of the things Joe had hoped he'd notice when he told him, in such detail, the contents of "Don Salzer's" database.

It had dealt with Immortals and Watchers. Given its purpose, there'd been no reason to mention _pre_ -Immortals.

Did the "authorities" not know, even now, that pre-Immortals existed? They might not have realized that Immortals identified at a later date were actually "new." And it might not have occurred to them that Immortals had to be _born_ , somewhere, and there was no reason to think they'd _stopped_ being born.

_Everything will be different for people who are pre-Immortals now, when they have their "first deaths"! They'll know how we're being treated, and they'll be horrified at what they've become. They'll do anything to hide it. And they won't be able to find experts to help them, when they eventually need new identities._

_On the other hand, they'll never have to learn to fight with swords, with all us older Immortals locked away. No Immortal born in the 20th century would have needed a sword, if not for the existence of older ones._

Those "youngsters" would live in a completely different world. Maybe better, without the swords. But he pitied them, for the terror they'd feel when they learned what they were.

x

x

x

Christmas and New Year's passed. Joe insisted on visiting MacLeod on both holidays, and they joked about his doing it for the free wine he was getting. They even welcomed the New Year with a hearty chorus of "Auld Lang Syne."

But MacLeod sensed, all along, that he was waiting for a "second shoe" to drop.

In mid-January, it did.

Joe had braved a snowstorm to visit him. Griped, as might have been expected, about the weather. But after he'd claimed his favorite chair, he addressed a more serious topic.

"The Watchers are sure now, Mac, that the authorities have _all_ the Immortals in custody. Our researcher Adam Pierson had concluded, more than a year ago, that the legendary 'Methos' never existed."

 _Letting me know Methos is still alive and free,_ MacLeod realized, _and his cover hasn't been blown._

"That doesn't surprise me," he replied. "I've always thought 'Methos' was just a _myth_ , like the name suggested."

_If the walls really do have ears, I'm glad I'm getting a chance to deliver that line._

Joe continued, "And they're all here now! All the world's Immortals, gathered inside this compound."

Had he put a very slight emphasis on the word "gathered"?

"As for what comes next..." He shrugged, a gesture that implied "Who knows?"

Given where he was sitting, that was all the nearest surveillance camera could have picked up.

But MacLeod saw something else. Both Joe's hands had been resting in his lap. Now he made a quick upward gesture with them - while mouthing the word "Poof!"

x

x

x

MacLeod felt as if he'd been hit by a truck.

But he managed not to show it. He knew he could tell Joe, by eye contact alone, that he understood.

The "authorities" were going to blow up both buildings in the compound, killing everyone who'd be there at the time - undoubtedly, only the captive Immortals. They hadn't intended that all along; they wouldn't have installed all those surveillance cameras if they hadn't expected Immortals - eventually - to be visiting one another, having conversations and possibly trying to hatch plots. But the U.N. Security Council was ultimately in charge. The explosion would be blamed on disaffected locals, who'd never be identified.

He remembered Joe's saying, months ago, "Given the way the average French citizen feels about it, the Council may be asking for trouble.

"And that may be what they really _want_..."

He knew Joe wouldn't have told him what he had now unless he was sure.

The Watchers had "cooperated." They'd probably made themselves so indispensable that some of them were "always around," never really noticed _._ And they'd heard the plan being discussed.

With only a few Watchers being allowed to visit Immortals, the planners might have forgotten that _any_ of them did.

He tried to resume a "normal" conversation, in case they were being overheard. Poured drinks for both of them. And then remembered there was ski racing on TV!

x

x

x

Watching the ski racing, not having to talk, he was able to think about what this stunning news _meant_.

He was going to die, of course. But all the Immortals were going to die...except _one_.

Methos.

There'd been a gathering, of sorts. And in the end, there would be only one!

He'd come to believe those were notions someone had dreamed up as an excuse for killing. But maybe there really had been a prophecy, that was being fulfilled. _A kind of_ _magic_...

He was glad Methos would be the one. A true friend...and an Immortal who genuinely _appreciated_ _life_.

He himself wouldn't have wanted to be the last, lonely survivor. He knew Methos could handle it.

But this changed all his thinking about pre-Immortals. Maybe, when there was only one full Immortal in existence, no new pre-Immortals would be born? Might the living pre-Immortals become mortal? If so, they wouldn't feel any sense of loss, because they'd never expected anything else...

His musing was interrupted by cheers, as the ski race came to an end. Joe was cheering as lustily as the fans on the slope, but he stopped long enough to ask, "Hey, Mac, do you have another bottle of this stuff?"

x

x

x

An hour later, Joe was preparing to leave. He always wanted to be completely ready to go - with his coat on - when the guards arrived, so they wouldn't have any excuse to complain about his visits. (Might this be the last one?)

MacLeod was concerned about the amount he'd had to drink. But there wasn't much he could do about it, except give him more help than usual with his coat.

And that was when he realized Joe wasn't drunk at all. He started to put one of his gloves on, appeared to have some problem, pulled it off...and managed to hand MacLeod a wad of paper he'd had concealed in the glove. Obviously a note of some kind. And important - possibly an emotional farewell.

MacLeod was able to stuff it in a pocket while not within range of a camera. And he waited for fifteen minutes after Joe had left before strolling into the bathroom, where he could safely read it.

He saw that the note was longer than he'd expected. Printed, in the smallest legible print size, so it would fit on a small piece of paper.

The handwritten signature wasn't Joe's.

And the contents of the note changed everything.

x

x

x

_MacLeod,_

_Trust me. I've been around long enough to be sure what I'm telling you is true._

_When an Immortal is killed, by beheading or an explosion, he or she immediately reincarnates as a pre-Immortal. The same sex as before, because most of us have been male or female so long that we couldn't adapt to being the opposite._

_Here's the best part. If the Immortal has expected this, and prepared himself mentally - which is rarely the case - he'll gradually recover all his important memories. Probably before the new incarnation's "first death."_

_Then he'll have the option of giving himself that "death" - making it an easy one, that won't attract the wrong kind of attention._

_Till we meet again,_

_Methos_


End file.
